


Pause And Cough It Out

by sartiebodyshots



Series: Are you going to stay in the shade when you were made for light? [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Gay love is healing, Gen, Ghost Masturbation, Human Masturbation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Richie Tozier's Internalized Homophobia, Turtle god saves the day, bringing that tag to a new fandom you're welcome, in this house we yearn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22605622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sartiebodyshots/pseuds/sartiebodyshots
Summary: As Eddie dies, Richie says something that he never meant to say aloud.  After Eddie dies, Richie has to pick up the pieces of his life.  But thanks to the intervention of a turtle not-god, Eddie's going to get another shot at life.  The waiting, however, is a pain in the ass.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Are you going to stay in the shade when you were made for light? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626598
Comments: 16
Kudos: 210





	Pause And Cough It Out

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Cough it out" by the Front Bottoms. 
> 
> Also there was some fic that I read early in this fandom that mentioned Maturin the turtle god, and boy do I wish I remembered which one because it was great and I also ripped off the idea of him intervening whoops.

Everything goes whitehot for a second when Richie sees the light fade from Eddie’s eyes. He falls to his knees and pulls him close, trying to pretend that Eddie is still alive. 

Eddie is still warm, so it’s easy to pretend that everything is alright for a brief moment. 

“I love you,” Richie murmurs, just quiet enough for Eddie to hear. “C’mon, Eds. I love you. I’ve loved you when we were kids, loved you even when I didn’t remember you.”

And he has never admitted that.

Never was going to admit that out loud.

Is pretty certain that if he did admit it, to Eddie, it would result in the end- or at least drastic reshifting- of their relationship. 

But he has watched a lot of cliche movies. Not that he was seeking them out, but there was a guy in his freshman dorm- cute in a nerdy way- that was absolutely obsessed with the kind of movies where you can lay out the whole rest of the plot from the first three minutes. For gay reasons that Richie would only fully understand later, Richie would hang out in his dorm room and watch. 

Richie, being Richie, could never keep his mouth  _ shut _ long enough to get through a whole movie, but he did pick up on one big thing. That one thing is that if you make a strong enough, shocking enough confession of your love, absolutely miraculous things can happen. 

And it’s stupid to hang his hat on this, on the faux magic of the bad movies he watched in college, but so much of what has happened to them has been impossible. Can’t just one impossible, wonderful thing happen? Just once. Just to save Eddie. 

There are hands pulling him away from Eddie, and Richie fights them, but he loses his strength when he sees Eddie’s eyes staring lifelessly back at him. Wonderful things don’t happen. Impossible tragedies only, for them.

Richie had thought that the worst thing that could happen is this:

He reveals his big, gay crush on Eddie; Eddie flips out and sees him for how disgusting he is; he never sees Eddie again; he loses his best friend. 

But the actual worst thing is:

Eddie dies; Richie has to leave his body in a disgusting, dirty house; the only person he ever admits any hint of his true feelings to is an empty corpse; Eddie’s life is cut short; in the aftermath, Richie realizes just how sad and trapped his best friend was; Eddie was miserable in his short life; Richie will be miserable in the rest of his long one; the world is dimmer without Eddie in it.

Richie lays on the floor of his apartment, a month after the death of the love of his goddamn life, and can’t believe how much he wishes for Eddie to walk through the door and  _ reject _ him. Not just that- call him nasty names, be  _ repulsed _ by him, call him filthy and disgusting- all things his logical brain knows Eddie would never do, but that Richie’s fears tell him would be a certainty if he ever knew about Richie’s big gay feelings for him.

He wants those terrible things, begs the universe for those things, because just knowing that Eddie is out there, alive, would be so much better than...  _ this _ .

* * *

“I love you,” Richie murmurs, a soft whisper in Eddie’s ear. “C’mon, Eds. I love you. I’ve loved you when we were kids, loved you even when I didn’t remember you.”

Eddie would normally expect a joke here, something, but there’s something desperate in Richie’s voice and in the way he’s clinging to him that tells him that Richie isn’t joking.

(Somehow, he realizes that he’s dead. Maybe it’s the shock, but the thought isn’t alarming in the slightest. It just is a fact.)

The house is shaking, collapsing around the Losers as they plead with Richie, but Richie doesn’t respond. He just continues to cling to Eddie with a grip that would probably hurt if he could feel anything. 

Eddie wants to tell him to run, but he can’t move, being dead and all. But Ben and Bill have it under control, pulling him away from Eddie.

“We can’t leave him down here!” Richie protests. “Not in the dark and the wet. He’d hate it.”

Eddie does hate the thought of being trapped down here, but he hates the notion of his friends- of  _ Richie- _ dying even more than that. The shock still numbing everything makes it a dull relief when Richie sags, still staring at him with agony written across his face, and Bill and Ben are able to drag him away to safety. 

And then Eddie is left here alone in Neibolt. The house is crumbling around him, and his ears should be roaring from the blood pumping through his veins, but there’s nothing except the fading sounds of his friends’ footsteps and the crumbling building.

Debris hits his face, but Eddie can’t protect himself- there’s nothing to protect anyway. He’s being buried dead, and he wishes that he could at least scream about it. The house collapses on top of Eddie fairly evenly, so he’s just compressed underneath it when everything goes quiet. 

He feels almost nothing at all as rocks and wood and whatever else buries him. Maybe he’s imagining it, but he can feel one small something. There’s a warmth where Richie had been pressed against him, had whispered a quiet, desperate declaration into his ear. 

Eddie can’t quite think about that too directly. Not right now, not as the shock is starting to wear off and the panic is starting to set in. He’s dead, but somehow still conscious and trapped in a body that is underground. He can see nothing and hear nothing and his existence is narrowed down to the confines of a body that he can no longer (mostly) feel. 

Is this what dying is? Just empty existence? Is he going to be trapped in this horrible, wretched place for the rest of the lifespan of the universe?

Even if they dig him up somehow, it'd be to be buried or cremated, neither of which is a comforting thought. 

_ Oh, sorry about that. It’s been kind of hectic around here. _

Eddie doesn’t know how long it is until he hears the voice, but he doesn’t think that he’s been down here long enough to start hearing voices. Hopefully not.

He can’t talk, but he can think, so he tries: “Uh, hello? Can you help me?”

_ Of course. _

And Eddie is no longer in Neibolt. Now, he’s in the clubhouse, in the hammock to be specific. It’s stretched to accommodate his adult form, or maybe his adult form has shrunk to accommodate the clubhouse of his childhood, and he feels a rush of warmth across his whole body. It still can’t quite wipe away Richie’s warmth, but it does make him feel a hair closer to alive. 

_ So normally, this is the part where I usher you to the great beyond. The afterlife. Whatever. _

“Uh, normally?” Eddie’s mouth is working now, and his voice comes out scratchy. 

_ It’s rude not to look at the person you’re talking to, you know. _

Eddie has no idea what to do with that, but then he realizes that there’s a turtle in the hammock with him. Since it’s the only living thing in here, he picks it up and sets it on his chest so he can look down at it. 

“Sorry?” Eddie says. 

_ Much better. _

“So the afterlife?” Eddie asks

_ Well, normally. But that friend of yours… he released something. There’s a power in a declaration like that in a place like that, and it gives you a choice. _

Eddie hasn’t thought much about the last words Richie said to him because he can’t stand to think of it. It’s too much to process. How had he not even known that Richie was gay? What does it mean that he can still feel the warmth of him? 

“What kind of a choice?” Eddie says, desperate to have anything else to think of. 

_ You can go to the afterlife, go be at peace. Or you can return to your life, as it was when you died. _

Eddie thinks about his life- his wife, his New York apartment, sterile and clean- and he wants to go to the afterlife. Being at peace seems nice, and he trusts this weird little turtle sitting on his chest. 

_ People can change their lives. _

Eddie thinks of Richie, clutching at him and desperate to save him- so desperate and full of love that it gave Eddie a choice other than death. He thinks of every best memory from his childhood and every worst memory; the good ones all feature Richie prominently, and after the bad ones, Richie was always who he turned to.

And Richie always made him feel warm and safe. He had a way of getting a rise out of Eddie that was more sweet than anything else, as if he knew that Eddie needed a safe place to be able to react. 

He thinks about his other friends too, of course. 

But his thoughts keep returning to Richie. 

“Would I be returned where I was?” Eddie asks. “Like, in the house?”

He doesn’t know how to explain it, but he feels the turtle laughing at him. Not in a mean way, but in an amused way, and he’s suddenly struck with the awareness that the turtle sitting on his chest is immeasurably old and powerful.

_ I think it would be foolish to restore your life only to put you in a place where you’re certain to die. No, you will be sent to where your heart lies.  _

“To… New York,” Eddie says dully.

The turtle takes a few steps forward, and Eddie has to go cross-eyed to see him clearly. 

_ To where your heart is. _

The voice is neutral.

_ Unless you would like to pass to the afterlife. _

Eddie thinks of his wife, of his coworkers, of his friends, of Richie. 

He thinks of his friends and of Richie. He would die for them. Sacrificing his life for Richie’s hadn’t been a choice he had made, really; it was something he had to do. There had been no other real option since the only other option was to watch Richie die. 

But is he willing to  _ live _ for them? To go back and face Myra and divorce her and put them both through that pain? Because he’s realized that if he decides to do this, to live, he can’t go back to his life as it was. 

Marrying Myra had felt right, on the surface. He was thirty-eight, they had dated for enough time, and it was what he knew he was supposed to do. So he proposed over dinner. He let her make all of the arrangements she wanted. They were married a year later. It was supposed to be a happy day, so he told himself that he was happy.

But it wasn’t right. He had married a woman that brought out the worst of him and a built a life as empty as his childhood would’ve been without the Losers in it. 

And he’s starting to think that any life he built with any woman, even the most loving, kind, funny woman, would’ve been just as empty. 

But Richie has given him a chance to start again. To build something on Earth that would make him happy, even if there’s a lot of pain in it, too.

“I want to live,” Eddie says. “Thank you.”

_ It will take some time to make the needed shifts to reality. _

Eddie scritches the turtle on the top of the head. He feels forty and fourteen all at once, and he wishes that Richie were here too, somehow, without the dying part, so he could shove his foot in his face, bother him like they were kids again, get the chance to do everything differently.

To do everything better.

“So… do I just wait here while you do whatever it is you’re going to do?” Eddie asks. 

_ To you, it will seem as if barely any time has passed at all. _

“And to Rich- I mean, my friends?” Eddie asks. “Not to be ungrateful, but I’m worried about them.”

The turtle seems sad somehow? Something in the eyes. He has very expressive eyes.

_ For them, a much longer time will have passed. The exact amount, I can’t say. It’s already been a month. _

“Oh…” 

_ It will not be easy for any of you, and for that, I am sorry. _

“D’you think this is better for them? That I come back? Or would it be easier if I passed on?” Eddie asks.

The turtle turns, butt suddenly in Eddie’s face, and walks with surprising speed down his body. At the juncture of his hip, the turtle climbs up his leg, reaching his foot to start climbing on the hammock itself. 

The ease with which the turtle climbs up the hammock is impossible, and as Eddie sits up to watch his progress, he notices something outside the window. It’s dark outside, but not a natural sort of darkness. It’s more like the darkness inside an empty city apartment.

The turtle is forgotten for a moment when Eddie hears a familiar soft cry through the window. He gets up to take a look and it takes him a long minute to orient himself.

He seems to be looking through the window into a dimly lit apartment. He can’t see much in the way of decoration or signs of who lives here- or even that anyone even does live here- but as he looks down, he sees telltale signs of crumbs and dirty dishes left out too long. 

And as his eyes adjust to the dim light, he finds the source of the cry he heard earlier. He presses closer to the window as he takes in the sight of Richie curled up on the floor, slumped against the wall. Richie looks like he hasn’t slept in at least a month, and he’s clutching a bottle of cheap-looking alcohol. 

His glasses aren’t sitting quite right on his face, and Eddie has the urge to climb through the window and readjust them. He has the urge to climb through the window and just hold Richie for a long, long time. 

_ There will be no easy path for him. The easy path for you is to pass on.  _

“Can I go to him? Even though I don’t have a body yet,” Eddie asks. 

He wants to look back to the turtle to gauge its mood, but he can’t look away from Richie. His chest doesn’t look like its moving. Eddie needs to make sure he’s still breathing. There’s probably nothing he can do about it if he isn’t, but Eddie needs to make sure he’s alive.

_ Of course. Just go to him. _

“Thank you again,” Eddie says.

It’s awkward, crawling in through Richie’s window, but Eddie does it anyway. Once he’s in, he goes right to Richie. He rests a hand on Richie’s chest, and while he can’t feel anything, he can tell from being so close that he’s still breathing.

“Oh, Rich….” Eddie says softly. 

To his surprise, Richie’s eyes open blearily. 

* * *

“Oh, Rich…”

The voice is so painfully familiar that despite his deep desire to stay blissfully unconscious, he wakes, but when he opens his eyes, he’s alone.

“Eddie?” Richie asks, voice catching in his throat. 

It’s hopeless, of course. He held Eddie’s dead body and saw his lifeless eyes staring at him. Eddie is dead, and that’s why he’s spent most of his nights and quite a few days clutching a bottle of whatever alcohol is cheapest and strongest. 

Because Richie admitted that he loves Eddie, essentially admitted that he’s gay, and he hadn’t actually admitted any of those things aloud before. He had barely admitted either thing to himself. 

It’s great. He forgets that he’s gay (although that came back in college-- he would’ve rather it stayed buried), forgets that he’s in love, and once it all comes back, the man that he loves  _ has loved will continue to love _ dies in his arms. Cause and effect. 

Like every movie he’s ever seen, sick feeling pooling in his stomach, where the man and the man or the woman and the woman try to make a life together and they die. They always have to die, and Richie just wishes it had been him instead. That he hadn’t poisoned Eddie with his affection. 

So he drinks because he killed Eddie, just as surely as IT did.

“Hey, Trashmouth,” Eddie’s voice is soft and gentle.

This isn’t the first time that he’s heard Eddie’s voice since Derry. When he’s sober, he hears the ghosts of Eddie’s laughter when he has a funny thought and he imagines scenarios where Eddie walks through the door to call him disgusting and leave- comforting thoughts because it would mean he’s alive. 

When he’s drunk, he’s far crueler to himself and imagines a happier ending than reality ever would’ve permitted. Imagines Eddie holding his hand. Imagines holding Eddie close and brushing his fingers through his hair and kissing him. The taste of him. Imagines what it would have been to do these things at 16 and at 20 and at 27 and at 35. 

Richie tightens his grasp on the bottle again and holds it up to his lips. A bit more and he won’t remember any of it. 

“Richie, you don’t need any more to drink. Come on,” Eddie’s voice says. “Get some water instead.”

“I’m sorry,” Richie says. “I’m so sorry, Eds.”

“Yeah, you’re going to be if you don’t get some water,” Eddie’s voice says. “Come on! And don’t call me Eds.” 

Richie sighs and gets to his feet with the help of the wall behind him. 

“Fine, fine. I’ll get some water,” Richie says. 

“Wait, you can hear me?!” the sudden rise in Eddie’s voice makes Richie’s head ring. 

“Alcohol is good for making better pretend,” Richie says, raising the bottle in a salute.

The bottle slips from Richie’s hand, flying a few feet before landing with a hard thud on the floor. The cheap plastic just lands with a hard thud on the plush carpet of Richie’s empty apartment. It’s empty enough that Richie doesn’t have to worry about anything spilling.

“This isn’t pretend, Richie,” Eddie’s voice says. “I know I’m dead, but I’m real, too. It’s just going to be like this for a little bit. The turtle, he said he could bring me back.”

Richie shakes his head, which makes him stumble on his way to the kitchen. At least he’s gotten a lot better at walking while absolutely plastered. He didn’t even drink this much in college.

“Nuh-uh. Not possible,” Richie says.

He’s made it to the kitchen now, and he looks around for something to put water in. Cups? All dirty, which wouldn’t bother him normally, but right now… it does. He finds an old water bottle that’s somehow stuck in his things even though he got it in college, and he fills it up, taking a big swig so he can fill it up again. 

“I know it sounds crazy, but really, it’s me. It’s Eddie.”

“If you were Eddie and you were not-dead, you wouldn’t be  _ here _ . You’d go see. Go see. Anyone other than me,” Richie says. “Because you’d know. And if you’d know, you’d never want to see me again because it’s all my fault you’re dead.”

“Richie…” Eddie’s voice is coming as if he’s standing right in front of him, just a bit closer than he really should be. “Richie, it wasn’t your fault, and there’s no one else I would rather see.”

“You have a wife,” Richie says, and he suddenly needs a drink, so he turns his head to take a swig and pulls a face when he realizes that it’s water. “You have other friends- the other Losers. There are so many better people you could go to.”

“Fuck, it’s weird when you put your hand through me, Richie,” Eddie complains. “But, uhm, I don't love my wife, and you’re my best friend that I… Shit this is hard. You’re who I want to be with most.”

The room is spinning again and so is his stomach. This sounds so much like Eddie, except he’s saying things that Richie knows Eddie would never say. Even if Myra seems awful from Richie’s very limited interactions with her, there has to be something to her or Eddie wouldn’t have married her. Richie is kind of predisposed to dislike Eddie’s wife and nobody is at their best when in mourning.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Richie says. He leans back against the cabinet and falls to the floor, water bottle falling with another thud. A sob works its way out of his chest as he buries his face in his hands. “How pathetic is this? Just talking to an alcohol-fuelled hallucination of my dead best friend and imagining him telling me things he never would. Even if you were Eddie, you should just hate me after this. For falling apart. For-”

_ Loving you _ , he can’t say, even as drunk as he is.

“I really didn’t understand most of that,” Eddie says, voice soft against his ear. “But I know I’d be arguing with you if I did.”

Richie can’t say anything else; the sobs are coming too hard now. Eddie murmurs soft comfort to him; being Eddie, soft comfort largely means “come on, Trashmouth, get up and take care of yourself,” and “Richie, you need to move your ass if you don’t want a shitty hangover.” 

He always loved how Eddie would take care of him; his mom treated him like he was frail, but Eddie was made of stronger stuff than the rest of them, or at least Richie. It would’ve so much better if it had been the other way around. Eddie wouldn’t have fallen apart like this. Not because he’s not in love with Richie, but just because he’s so much stronger than Richie is. 

Richie sobs himself to exhaustion, slipping into blissful unconsciousness just as sunlight starts to peer, unwelcome, through his windows. He stays right there, despite the voice in his ear telling him to get up and get to  _ bed _ because he was going to be sore if he didn’t. 

He dreams that morning of warm hands carding through his hair, of a soft breath against his neck, but of course, when he wakes up on the cold sterile tile, he’s alone. He’s always alone. The Losers had tried, of course, but Richie is good at covering for himself, especially from a distance. 

The memories of the near-real voice he heard the night before hit him while he’s in the shower. It’s kind of nice to know he hasn’t forgotten the sound of Eddie’s voice; that’s not something he’s willing to face yet. But, again, he can’t help thinking how pathetic it is.

When he’s not drunk, he’s got a nice little wall around everything Eddie and Derry related. They’re cordoned off with other things that cause him too much upset to function- like his entire sexuality and memories of college. It’s nice because that’s what keeps him functional during the day. 

Richie lets the water roll over him. When he gets drunk before a show or a meeting, he likes to take an extra long shower to help wash away the hangover. His manager is real anal about that sort of thing. 

Speaking of… 

He checks his phone after he gets out of the shower and sees three missed messages from Syd. Shit. Time to get going.

* * *

When Richie passes out, Eddie checks on him immediately, relieved to see the slight rise and fall of his chest. He’s pretty sure that he couldn’t do anything if Richie was in danger, so he’s extra glad that he seems to be alright. 

Curious about his own capabilities, Eddie tries to brush the hair out of Richie’s face. Nothing happens. He can’t feel anything. 

Now that he’s over the initial urge to take care of Richie that sent him through the window, he realizes that he can’t feel anything. He’s not tired, or hungry, or warm, or cold, or... anything. 

He presses his hand to Richie’s chest. While his hand stops, it doesn’t feel any different than when he presses his hand against the cabinet behind Richie. 

He thinks about his hand going through the cabinet as if he expects it. Sure enough, it does. It doesn’t feel like much of anything.

Eddie is very particularly careful to  _ not _ think about going through the floor. 

Once he’s sure that Richie is going to stay breathing, Eddie takes a nosy peek around Richie’s apartment. It’s a decent-sized place - two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a living room, and an extra room that’s probably supposed to be a formal dining room- and it’s nicely furnished. Maybe a bit too nicely furnished.

Looking around, there’s nothing about the apartment that feels like Richie, except maybe the mess. The dishes and clothes left in disarray are clearly Richie’s- particularly the dishes, which seem to be an eclectic, mismatched group. But the actual furnishings are stylish and sleek, as if someone picked out the decorations for Richie. 

There aren’t many other personal effects around, either. No pictures hanging on the wall of Richie, no awards or diplomas or whatever else Richie has earned in his life. The closest thing is a calendar hanging in the kitchen.

Eddie reads it, squinting in the dim light of morning. If the turtle is accurate in his measure of time, Richie hasn’t turned over the calendar to the new month yet, so Eddie can’t see if there’s anything else he’s supposed to be doing today, but the last month was booked with shows. 

Eddie hopes Richie took some time for himself. 

He drifts to the window, wondering if Richie has any sort of view, but it’s just the clubhouse. 

“Hello?” Eddie calls out softly, not wanting to wake Richie.

_ I’m still here, Eddie. _

“Will this… coming back from the dead thing? Will it still work if I stay here with Richie?” Eddie asks.

_ Yes, but you will experience the passage of time the same as he will. Stay with me, here, and you will experience it as a matter of hours before your resurrection. With Richie, it will be much longer. _

“But it’s the same for Richie either way?” Eddie checks.

_ Yes. _

Eddie looks back behind him, where Richie is starting to stir. He can’t leave Richie. Somehow, he knows that the turtle already knows the decision he’ll make. 

“Hey, Richie, how’s your head?” Eddie asks.

Richie ignores him, getting to his feet with a groan. He ignores the mess on the counters, on the floor, running his fingers through his hair. Eddie notes that despite the general disarray elsewhere in the apartment, Richie himself seems to be pretty put together, hair and beard carefully messy in a way that’s stylish instead of actually sloppy. 

“Rich, when your dead friend comes to say hi, it’s rude to ignore him!” Eddie says a bit louder. When Richie continues to ignore him and head towards the bathroom, Eddie yells, “Hey Richie, I heard your love confession and when I get my body back, I’m going to suck your dick so good!”

When Richie ignores  _ that _ , Eddie is confident that he just can’t hear him at all. Well. Great. 

_ The alcohol may have made him more open to something seemingly impossible.  _

“So… I can only talk to him when he’s wasted?” Eddie asks, watching Richie retreat into the bathroom. 

There’s a weight on his shoulder, and Eddie tilts his head down to see the turtle sitting on his shoulder. It looks up at him wisely. 

_ This is all brand new to me, too. What you and Richie have done is wholly unprecedented. And I didn’t think I had many surprises left in my existence. _

Eddie looks at the closed door of the bathroom, where he can hear the shower running. Richie is loving him back to life? That’s… that’s a lot. 

He has a sudden thought. If it wasn’t for everything, they could’ve been happy together. Eddie could’ve moved out to sunny Los Angeles with Richie, could’ve walked down the street hand in hand, could’ve helped each other get better. Gone grocery shopping and argued about which couch to buy and taken stupid pictures together.

That set of thought feels so goddamn right. So much better than anything with Myra or any of the (very few) women he had dated in his life. 

“What do you do when you realize that you’ve ruined your whole life? That you just wasted so many years pretending to be who your mom wanted you to be?” Eddie asks softly. 

_ From my observations, you can either go back to that old life or decide who you want to be. _

It feels like it should be harder to admit that you’ve ruined your own life, that you’re gay, and that you’re in love with your best friend. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t really have to face the consequences of his realizations just yet. Or maybe it’s because Richie admitted that he loves him first, so Eddie knows he’s not doing this alone, at least. Or, he won’t be.

“I’m glad that I won’t have died like that,” Eddie says. “Well, not permanently.” 

_ Yes, it would’ve been a tragedy.  _

Richie comes out of the bathroom buck naked, and Eddie coughs and turns his head. If he had a physical body, he knows he’d be blushing and more than a little turned on. There’s a laugh in his head from the turtle on his shoulder, but it’s a kind sort of laugh.

“Hey Syd,” Richie’s voice interrupts them. Eddie glances over to see him talking on the phone. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that. Uh huh, I’ll be there.” Richie sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Syd, I  _ know _ . I’m running right out the door now, I promise.”

Eddie doesn’t know who this Syd is, but from the tired way that Richie stares at his phone when he hangs up, he feels a burning resentment to anyone who makes Richie look like that anyway.

Despite what he said to Syd, Richie walks slowly to his room, emerging a few minutes later in a wrinkled shirt that Eddie is pretty sure came from the floor. He grabs his keys and shoves them into his pocket. 

Eddie follows him out the door and down the stairs, keeping up a running commentary as he goes. He’s never been to Los Angeles before; it’s a far cry from dreary New York, especially since he’s reinvigorated from the prospect of a better, happier life. 

Richie hails a cab and Eddie manages to slip in the backseat with him. Eddie watches as Richie leans back in his seat, looking as if he’s been awake for days at this point. He looks so  _ old _ , as if the intervening month has aged him decades.

On impulse, Eddie reaches forward and strokes Richie’s cheek. He can imagine the warmth, wonders what his stubble would feel like against his fingertips. 

“I miss you,” Eddie says softly. “Missed you when I didn’t even remember you, which shouldn’t be possible, really, but here we are.”

Richie straightens a bit, and maybe Eddie is imagining it, but he seems to tilt his face into his touch. He doesn’t respond to anything Eddie says, but Eddie tries scooting closer to him to try to give him some semblance of comfort anyway.

Eddie checks the dashboard clock of the cab; it’s just past three in the afternoon. He wonders where it is that they’re heading to. It’s a weird time of day to be going anywhere, but he doesn’t know what a comedian’s schedule generally is like. 

To Eddie’s surprise, they pull up to a little restaurant. Richie pays the driver and sighs, double-checking something in the mirror before getting out and heading inside.

Eddie keeps pace with Richie, watching him. The tired sadness that’s permeated him seems to disappear behind a relaxed mask that Eddie knows is fake. It’s convincing, except even Richie can’t hide the dark circles under his eyes.

The restaurant is pretty empty, which isn’t surprising given the time of day. It’s a bit on the rundown side, but in the kind of way that lets you know that the food must be good; people wouldn’t keep coming back otherwise. 

“Richard, you were supposed to be here for lunch four hours ago,” a woman says by way of greeting, waving him over to a back table. When Richie is almost to the table, she gets up and closes the distance between them, grabbing Richie by the shoulders and looking him up and down. “You look like shit.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. This is just what my face looks like, unfortunately,” Richie says.

The woman is even taller than Richie is, with star-shaped sunglasses perched precariously on her head, and her brow furrows at the joke. 

“With material like that, no wonder you have writers,” the woman says.

“Oh, Syd, you wound me with your rapier wit,” Richie says dryly. 

“Let’s get you some food,” Syd says, letting go of his shoulders. “I did order you something, but then once I hit hour two of waiting for you to show, I ate it.”

“You didn’t need to wait. I’m sure we could’ve just done this over the phone,” Richie says. 

“This is how I make sure you’re getting a square meal in and that you haven’t drunk yourself into liver failure yet,” Syd says, and Eddie reevaluates his earlier assessment of her. If she’s checking in on Richie, that’s something. “I’ve told you, if you need to take some more time before we start your tour, that’s alright. The Trashheads will wait for you, and I’ll only idly consider dropping you as a client.”

Oh, Eddie is going to make fun of him for having a fanbase with a name like that. 

“I’m fine, Syd. Really,” Richie says, settling into the booth. “I just want to get touring, get out of town for a bit.”

“I know that you definitely don’t want to talk about whatever happened the last time you left the city, but if you ever did, that’d be fine. I know a thing or two about shitty visits to shitty hometowns,” Syd says. “We’ve known each other for how long now?”

“Long enough that you can get away with calling me Richard when I’m being a fuckhead. But really, everything is just,” Richie sighs and rubs his nose. “I just want to get back to touring.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s hash out some details,” Syd says. 

There’s enough room in the booth for Eddie to slide in awkwardly next to Richie. He’s bored by some of the finer points of organizing a tour, and he lets his attention wander a bit. 

It’s frustrating, watching them eat. Eddie still can’t feel anything, and he’s starting to forget what feeling felt like. If he didn’t know that this was temporary, he’d be a bit more worried about losing his humanity. 

Richie almost seems to be holding up okay. After actually getting some food in his body and bantering back and forth with Syd, he can pass as a functional human being. It doesn’t fool Eddie since he watched Richie pass out on his kitchen tile the night before, but he can understand why the other Losers aren’t  _ here _ if this is the act he gave them.

The meeting lasts longer than any meeting has a right to, and Eddie tries to work on pushing one of their glasses over. He focuses and focuses and imagines knocking the glass over as he pushes against it with all of his ghostly might. 

Unfortunately, his ghostly might doesn’t cause so much as a ripple in the water. 

“I thought being a ghost would be way cooler,” Eddie murmurs as he fails to knock the candlestick over.

_ I’ll see what I can do for you the next time I’m bringing you back from the dead and making sure Pennywise doesn’t get its evil claws in your soul. _

The turtle sounds very serious.

“That was a possibility?!” Eddie exclaims, looking down at the turtle that’s appeared on the table. 

The turtle smiles at him, turtleishly.

_ Nah. I’m just kidding. I mean, I was just making it up as I went along, but that probably wouldn’t have happened.  _

“Comforting,” Eddie says. “Can I ask you… Can I ask you what does happen, after you die?”

_ After I die, I think the universe ends. As far as after you die… apparently you get trapped as a ghost for a while. But, seriously, the afterlife varies on the person. No telling quite what will happen until it’s time.  _

Eddie wonders about what kind of afterlife his mother ended up in. Hopefully whatever afterlife he eventually ends up in is far, far away from hers.

_ I wouldn’t put you back there.  _

Eddie scritches the top of the turtle’s head again. It’s the only thing that he can really feel; he has a rough sort of texture to him that is striking contrast to the pale nothing he feels everywhere else. 

“You’re a good turtle,” Eddie says. 

_ The best. _

Eddie laughs at that, and it turns into a groan as Richie scoots out of the booth, going directly through him. It doesn’t actually hurt or even feel uncomfortable physically, but it’s weird on a psychological level. 

“Maybe consider getting here a bit earlier the next time your manager wants to help you out with your career, okay, Richard?” Syd says. 

“I’ll try to be only an hour late,” Richie says, holding up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

Syd hms, clearly unsatisfied by this, and takes him by the shoulders again. She looks him up and down before pulling him into a tight hug.

“You take care of yourself, Richie,” Syd says seriously. “And if you can’t, you call me, so I can do it. Any goddamn time.”

To Eddie’s surprise, Richie lets himself be hugged, leaning into the touch, even if he doesn’t quite bring himself to hug back. He’s shaking, just a bit, and wanting to feel like he’s helping  _ somehow _ , Eddie reaches out to stroke his hair. 

“I’m sorry I can’t actually help you right now. Please let your friend help you,” Eddie murmurs softly. 

The one-sided hug lasts for a long moment before Syd pulls away. There are matching sad smiles on their faces. Syd presses her box of leftover pizza into Richie’s hands; she had eaten maybe half a bite of one slice.

“Here- I can’t actually take any of this home, or I’ll get in trouble. Be a shame to let it go to waste,” Syd says.

“Then why did you order a large for yourself after already eating a meal, huh?” Richie asks.

“Poor planning, I suppose,” Syd says with a smile on her face. “See ya later, Richie.”

Before Richie can argue any further, Syd has turned and strode out the door, sliding her sunglasses down over her eyes. 

“Yeah, you’ve never poorly planned a thing in your damn life,” Richie says to himself, shaking his head. 

He still takes the pizza, along with the remains of his pasta, home with him. When he opens his fridge to put it away, it’s empty except for a bag of bread and quite a bit of beer. 

“Richie, you need to actually go grocery shopping. Like get some real food. I  _ know _ you can cook. This is just sad,” Eddie says.

Now that he’s alone, Richie lets the facade fall and he looks so old again. Shoulders hunched, he shuffles over to the couch and plops down. He sits for a moment, staring at nothing before curling into a ball on his side. 

Richie turns on the television, but when Eddie squats in front of him, he can tell that Richie isn't really watching. His eyes are glazed over like he's half asleep, as if the meeting drained all of the energy out of him.

"I'm so fucking mad at you for this," Eddie says as he settles into the couch by Richie's head. He can't feel the hair slipping between his fingers as he cards them through Richie's hair, but he pretends that they can both feel it. "You need to be taking care of yourself. You're important, Richie."

The man beside him doesn't stir, just continues to lay there. 

“I was never good at that,” Richie murmurs. “Never good at being alone or with other people. Never figured out why until it was too late. What’s the point?”

Eddie doesn’t have a heart, so it doesn’t beat, but it still feels hard to remind himself to stay calm. If he can only communicate with Richie while he’s half asleep or drunk, he doesn’t want to pull Richie out of it. 

“Richie, you deserve to be happy. I know it’s not easy right now, but reach out to the other Losers. Or even Syd. Just get some help, please,” Eddie says, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. “For me, if nothing else.”

“Don’t want to,” Richie says, voice heavy with sleep. “I won’t forget you again. I can’t. Not from IT, not from normal forgetting. No.”

Maybe it’s good that he doesn’t have a stomach because he can only imagine how sick it would make him feel to hear Richie say that. It certainly makes the hollow space inside of Eddie feel even hollower. He wants to be able to hold Richie, to comfort him properly. 

“It’d be okay,” Eddie says, swallowing around a lump in his throat that doesn’t exist. His voice catches; the lump in his throat doesn’t exist because his throat doesn’t exist because he doesn’t exist. Except he does. “If you did forget some of the details. As long as you were happy.”

“It wouldn’t be,” Richie says. He sighs and flops onto his back. “Wouldn’t be happy like that. Don’t know how to be happy anyway.”

After Richie’s negative reaction to Eddie asserting his existence the night before, Eddie doesn’t want to say that they can learn together, but he wants nothing more than the two of them learning how to be happy together.

“Richie, do you trust me?” Eddie asks.

Silence, followed by a loud snore. When Eddie looks down, Richie is asleep. Eddie reaches out to stroke his face but feels nothing. 

Richie wakes up a few hours later and stumbles into the kitchen. It’s dark, so Richie stumbles into a few things, but he manages to make it more or less intact. He reaches up into a cabinet, grabs a bottle, and starts drinking.

When he seems a bit tipsy, Eddie starts trying to make contact again. This time, there’s no reply from Richie. Whether he’s not getting through or Richie doesn’t want to reply to what he thinks is a hallucination, Eddie can’t be sure, but he suspects the former.

So Eddie is stuck watching as Richie just continues to drink. At least this time he makes it to his bed, manages to fall on his side. Eddie finds himself watching Richie sleeping again, watching the rise and fall of his chest with rapt attention.

* * *

A lot of Richie Tozier’s life has been marked by loneliness. Not that he’s ever been alone much, but he forgot his best friends and never really found anybody else to get close with. He even keeps his parents and sister at arm’s length; they never quite understood him, and Richie was not inclined to let them in, even when they were trying desperately. They send birthday and Christmas cards back and forth, with the occasional phone call here and there, and he makes sure that they’re all taken care of, financially, but he couldn’t say the last time he saw them. 

The closest thing to an exception is Syd, who he met when he first came out to LA. She showed up to a few early shows, then essentially decided that she would be his agent; he couldn’t see a reason to disagree. Best of all, she never pushed when he wouldn’t (or, turns out, couldn’t) talk about his childhood or any of those normal small talk things that usually come up when you know someone for a long time. She used all her pushiness to get him booked for shows and keep the scattered details of his life that he was never particularly good with in order. 

But still, his closest relationship is a business one.

This night, however, Richie doesn’t feel alone. It’s strange; he’s felt more alone than ever since coming back from Derry. He knows objectively he shouldn’t- it turns out that he has a whole gaggle of friends, after all, and they do keep in contact- but coming back to his apartment has thrown the overall loneliness of his life into sharp relief.

But tonight, he feels a sort of tender feeling surrounding him as he lays on his couch, a general sense of good feelings. He doesn’t know how else to describe it. 

He falls asleep, dreams of sweet words that he forgets when he wakes up. He groans, realizing he’s fallen asleep on the couch again. God, why did Syd have to pick him out a couch that was just comfy enough to fall asleep on but not comfy enough to actually serve as a bed? 

Richie stumbles into the kitchen because it’s habit enough by now to grab the bottle and take a few swigs. He only takes a couple sips tonight, feeling less shitty than usual, and stumbles to bed, passing out immediately.

* * *

Eddie follows Richie around the next few days through his routine. He can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t really do anything other than follow Richie around. He tries to pop in on the other Losers, curious if he can, but when he tries, the turtle appears on his shoulder.

_ While you’re in this in-between state, you’re tethered to Richie. Once you are alive again, you will be free to move as you please. But for now, you must remain with him while in this dimension. _

“There are worse places to be,” Eddie says, stifling a sigh.

He tries to make contact whenever Richie is falling asleep or drinking, actually getting through maybe half of the time. He’s drinking less and less, and even if he usually does drink to excess when he does drink, Eddie decides to take it as an encouraging sign. 

Eddie follows and Eddie follows and Eddie follows. When he tries to stay in the apartment once, he just starts drifting behind Richie, like some sad dog.

It hits Eddie, as he stands awkwardly in the aisle of a plane bound for an unknown destination, that being dead honestly isn’t that much different than being alive, at least not how he lived his life. His mom dragged him along, hurting him with her love and not caring that she left him unable to take care of himself. He fought as best he could, running off with the Losers and spending time with Richie when he knew his mom disapproved, but there’s only so much a child can do against a parent.

Then he left Derry and he forgot that he was brave. Forgot about the friends that made him feel brave. But he was still so tired from the struggles of his childhood that he just kept into the same pattern but without the same friendship bond helping him keep some semblance of self. Besides, his mom had still needed him at least until she was dead. 

When he met Myra, part of him didn’t mind that she was so overbearing. It was good, actually, to never have to make any choices when he was so numbed on pills and the occasional stiff drink. He knew he needed to marry a woman because everyone kept on giving him those sideways looks, and Myra was who would have him. 

Honestly, he feels as if he’s more involved now than he was in life. At least Eddie is trying. When he fails to make contact with Richie, he tries again. 

And Richie has a pretty great excuse for ignoring his wants, what with Eddie being dead and all. 

When he has his life back, he’s going to make it better than it was before; he’s going to actually live it, for real this time. 

* * *

Richie groans at the knocking on his hotel room door, hand hovering over the minibar. He’s done four shows in six days, and he finally has a day of no travel  _ and  _ no show. His plan was to sleep, drink, sleep some more, drink some more. A very good plan, if he does say so himself. He’s done the first round of sleeping, and his plan was to order room service and get to the drinking.

“I’m asleep,” Richie calls back. 

“It’s three in the afternoon. Your set was done at eleven,” Syd’s voice rings out. Of course. “I promised you dinner. I figured that I should get you up now if I want you to actually show up before midnight.” 

“So I’ll meet you at ten, then?” Richie says. 

Syd just raps on his door again before her footsteps pad to the next room and that door opens and closes. There’s a knock on the wall, too, and Richie knows that he’s going to have to actually go to dinner.

Well, that’s probably a better plan than drinking until he passes out. Technically. 

Richie showers and then showers again to make sure he gets the alcohol smell out of himself. He digs through his bag, but luckily, his onstage persona also dresses like shit, so it’s easy to find something suitable. 

“You look… like a person, not a fancy manager,” Richie says when Syd knocks on his door an hour later, dressed more casually than he’s ever seen her. “But, like, good, I mean.”

“You look pretty much like you always do,” Syd says with a kind smile, “so it’s not too bad.”

“Now you’re just flattering the talent,” Richie says, letting the door slam shut behind him. 

They banter a bit back and forth as they make their way out of the hotel. Syd seems to have a destination in mind, leading him along the river and past the baseball stadium. It’s the general direction of the venue he had performed at the night before, so it’s not totally unfamiliar to him, but they had taken a car before. 

They walk in comfortable silence for a bit. It’s kind of a weird feeling as they walk. He keeps feeling like there’s someone else walking with them, and he keeps looking behind him, turning to make some stupid joke, but there’s nobody else. 

Richie can feel Syd’s eyes on him and the concern absolutely radiating off of her. It only increases as he downs a couple drinks with his dinner. 

Dinner is a pretty quiet affair, overall. They’re not talking about work because it’s a dinner between friends, and Richie doesn’t have much of a social life to talk about. Richie is also distracted because he can hear a familiar, impossible voice just outside his range of hearing. 

It makes it a surprise when Syd loops her arm through his on the way back to the hotel and leads him towards a set of stairs. When they get to the top, cars rush by on the other side of the chain-link fence, but Syd takes them about halfway down the pedestrian bridge turns them to face the water. It's grown dark, so the lights of the city reflect off the water. 

"Uh, did you bring me up here to pitch me over the edge?" Richie asks, voice not quite hitting the right cadence for a joke. 

Syd sighs, arm still looped through his. "You and I are friends."

"Yeah?" Richie says, not really liking the serious tenor in her voice.

"I’m worried about you, Rich. I know whatever happened when you went back home was rough, but it’s months later and you still look haunted. You’re drinking pretty much daily, and you could barely concentrate on the dinner conversation,” Syd says. “I don’t know how I can help, but I’m scared for you. I know you said you wanted to tour again, but I’m not sure that was a good idea.”

“I’ve been good onstage; the crowds love me,” Richie argues. His head is swimming a bit from the alcohol and the walk. “And I’ve never been good at focus.”

“This is different, and you know it,” Syd says. “I’m not worried about your career or your fans; I’m worried about you.”

Richie looks out over the water; he can see why Syd took him up here. It’s beautiful, and the whizzing of the cars behind him is a nice sort of static in his brain. 

“Talk to her. Tell her something. Please,” Eddie’s voice is echoing in his skull, and when Richie turns his head, he can almost see him standing next to him. 

“I lost someone,” Richie’s voice cracks out of him, small. He  _ feels  _ small and he closes his eyes against everything else. Syd is still pressed against his side, but he pretends that he’s alone up here, talking to a ghost. “I loved… I was in love with someone. For a long time. It’s stupid; we didn’t talk for 27 years. We never would’ve gotten together, so it’s really stupid, but I just… everything feels wrong now. I just want to know my best friend is out there. I just want...”

_ Him to be around to hate me for loving him _ , he doesn't quite manage to say around the seizing in his chest. 

Syd rubs his arm and pulls him close as he starts to shake. He hates this, hate that he can't make a joke to brush this off because it's Eddie, and Eddie deserves better than jokes. 

"Syd," Richie's voice shakes just a little. Eddie was so goddamn brave. Richie's gotta learn to be brave too. "I'm gay. His name was Eddie. I was in love with my best friend, Eddie, and he died in my arms."

He could swear he hears a cheer, but when he looks around, he's alone with Syd on the bridge except for the traffic. She's looking at him with love in her eyes, like she almost understands how hard this is for him. 

"I'm sorry, Richie. I know that wasn't easy for you. That’s not easy, period," Syd finally says. 

"I told him. Right as he was dying," Richie says. "And now you and that's it. Actually, I never really said that I’m gay aloud. I’m shit at this. Wow, impressively bad."

"Jesus, Richie," Syd says. "I know what that sort of repression can do. I mean, I don’t know about the dying part in your arms part, but I imagine it doesn’t help matters.”

“Yeah,” Richie says with a shaky laugh. “For a minute, I was worried that a car was going to break through the fence and take you out.”

It’s one of those jokes that’s not really a joke, which is a real Richie Tozier Special. Especially these days. 

“It’d take more than a car to take me out,” Syd says, voice soft, compassionate. “I promise, it’ll feel normal in time. Less like the Earth is ending.”

“I don’t know if I ever want to tell anyone else, about any of it. I can’t imagine… No, I can’t imagine telling anyone other than you,” Richie says. “You won’t… you won’t make me come out publicly, will you? Or talk about Eddie?”

The thought of bylines and blog articles about his sexuality, plastered where everyone can read, makes his stomach turn and turn. He shakes his head at the thought.

“Of course not,” Syd says, crinkling her brow at him. “Of course not. If you ever do want to be public about anything, that’s okay, but I’ll help you stay closeted, too. Just please take care of yourself. If your Eddie was worth this much upset, he’d also want you to be happy in your life.”

His Eddie… hearing someone say that makes him feel a bit off kilter. 

“Thank you,” Richie says. “For being my really annoying manager and friend.”

They’ve started making their way slowly back towards the hotel. Richie’s legs somehow feel weak but steady at the same time; he’s glad he’s got Syd to support him.

“Thank you for trusting me with this,” Syd says. 

“Now you’re going to be stuck listening to all of my gay angst,” Richie says, and his voice only trips a little bit over the word gay.

“I’ve had plenty of gay angst over the years, so it evens out," Syd says. 

Richie pauses as he absorbs her words, nearly being dragged off his feet when Syd doesn't stop right on cue. 

"Wait  _ what _ ," Richie says. 

“What what?” Syd asks.

“You’re a lesbian? Since when?”

"Richie, I invited you to my wedding, where I married a woman. Did that not clue you in?" Syd asks. 

"I got food poisoning and couldn't go, remember?" Richie says. 

"No?" Syd says. "I was getting  _ married _ ; I had a lot going on."

"Goddamnit, I did not need to be this stressed out about telling you," Richie says. 

Syd laughs a bit as they continue their walk. “I can pretend that acceptance was a real struggle, if you want.”

“I think I prefer the way things worked out,” Richie says. 

“Me too,” Syd says. They walk in comfortable silence for a little bit, until they make it into the warm air of the hotel lobby and up the elevator to their floor. “And I mean it when I say that I want you to call me if you ever need anything. Even if it’s stupid hours.”

“I will. Even if it’s stupid hours,” Richie recites diligently. 

Syd pulls him into a hug and Richie stiffens for a moment before hugging her back. 

It’s safe to do this, he realizes. She knows his dark secret. Syd knows that he’s been in love with his best friend, still loves him after his death, and still wants to comfort him, to hug him. 

Richie clings to her for a long moment, even after Syd starts pulling away. He just needs this bit of human connection, the sort of which, he’s realizing, is in very short supply in his life. 

“Goodnight, Rich,” Syd says. 

“G'night," Richie says. 

With a nearly contented sigh, Richie opens the door to his room. It's dark, so he flips on the light. His gaze lingers over the minibar- his dinner buzz is starting to fade- but he decides instead to change back into his pajamas and crawl into bed. It's a bit early to sleep, so he flicks on the TV, just flipping through the channels randomly. 

-

Eddie is so proud of Richie for coming out to Syd. A little less proud that he’s apparently the most oblivious man on the planet (seriously- the woman mentioned wearing Sam’s hoodie just yesterday), but Richie actually said it to someone not dying.

And then Richie goes back to the hotel and just… watches bad television. Doesn’t drink himself into a coma or anything. 

Eddie sits next to him on the bed carefully. It feels a little strange to sit in bed with him like this; Eddie tends to stick to the chairs to give Richie his space, unless he’s worried that Richie isn’t breathing. It shouldn’t feel strange for him- how many times did they do this as kids? How much time did they spend together as kids in each other's bedrooms, hanging out and playing? 

When they had gotten older, there had been something else between them. It hadn't been something that Eddie knew how to put a name on at the time, but he knows now, and it's the same reason he hesitates to settle up next to Richie now, even if he's a ghost and he knows that Richie wouldn’t mind. 

“This is going to be easier once you can actually hear me,” Eddie says with a sigh. “I think I’m going crazy sometimes. Nobody to talk to except god, nobody to touch except god.”

_ I’ve told you I’m not really god. _

“Mmm, yeah, and I  _ totally _ believe you on that,” Eddie says with an eye roll. 

Richie makes a joke about the movie and Eddie can’t help but laugh. 

“God, you really need to write your own material,” Eddie says, a common gripe during the tour. “Your delivery really saves what those writers wrote, but you’re way funnier than they are.”

Eddie settles in for another night. Sometimes, he thinks being unseen and unheard and untouched is going to drive him crazy. Tonight, though, it’s almost tolerable; he can pretend to feel Richie’s warmth, can laugh at his jokes, and can still make jokes of his own. It’s not quite right- Richie always used to laugh at his jokes, for one- but it’s enough to keep him grounded for just a bit longer.

And that’s how he takes his current existence: piece by piece without thinking too far ahead.

In his mirth, his hand falls on Richie’s knee. Eddie doesn’t realize for a moment, but when he does, he tilts his head. He’s reached out to touch Richie a thousand times before, he’s sure, but there’s something that feels different in this moment (apart from the unfeeling death part, of course).

He examines how his hand looks there, resting on Richie’s knee, flexes his fingers just a little bit. Eddie could never bring himself to be very affectionate with Myra or any of his (very few) past girlfriends. He had assumed he wasn’t the affectionate type. Not cold, just… reserved.

But he  _ likes _ sitting with his hand on Richie’s knee, likes being close to him- and he can only imagine that it will be better when he can actually feel it for real, have Richie’s real reaction. He suddenly can’t imagine that once he has a body, he’ll ever want to stop touching Richie.

Maybe not so reserved after all. 

Richie puts his hand right by Eddie’s, scratching an itch with a soft sigh. The sigh turns into a soft hum as he turns to a different channel and leans forward in apparent interest. 

Eddie looks up from the space where their two hands are almost touching to see Lee Pace in the shower. He looks… hot, Eddie can finally admit. 

Richie’s hand slides slowly up his thigh to brush over his, uh,  _ package _ . Eddie isn’t sure if it’s an accident at first, but then Richie grinds against his hand with a moan.

“Aw shit, dude, warn a guy next time,” Eddie complains. 

Eddie realizes that watching Richie masturbate would be crossing a big line- it’s the same reason why he always turns away whenever he’s changing. But he can’t just turn away for a minute while Richie jacks off.

Instead, he slides off the bed as a groan escapes Richie’s lips. There’s nowhere to go but the bathroom, and he feels kind of silly perched on the sink, waiting for Richie to finish. He tries very hard not to think about what’s going on just a few feet away. To not think about Richie’s hand sliding up his stomach, lifting his shirt to take it off. To not think about Richie pushing his pants down and wrapping his hand around himself. 

Eddie bites his lip as he definitely doesn’t think about replacing Richie’s hand with his own, about Richie pressing him into the bed, about what it would feel like to have Richie press kisses against his neck while stroking him. That the door is open and Richie isn’t taking pains to be quiet makes it a lot harder not to think about these things.

Of course! Of course! Eddie actually feels horny and is actually letting himself feel that for the first time in a long, long time and he doesn’t even have a body to enjoy it. 

“Fuck! Shit! Fuckshit!” Eddie yells, banging his hand on the counter as Richie lets out an absolutely obscene moan and the bed squeaks- sounds like Richie is adjusting to a different position and boy, does Eddie not need to think about  _ that _ . 

Eddie realizes that he’s a fucking  _ ghost _ . He can go through  _ walls _ , even if he is tethered to Richie. He doesn’t have to sit on the bathroom sink and think about what Richie’s lips would look like wrapped around him or what it would feel like to have Richie inside of him for the first time. 

He steps from the bathroom into the next room. Maybe it’s only fair he gets to do a little ghost spying on someone other than Richie. 

“-alright,” Syd says. She’s sprawled out on her stomach in her pajamas, laptop propped open in front of her. “I just… I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“Yeah, I know,” a woman’s voice comes from the laptop- Sam, Eddie presumes. “We’ll figure it out, together. If you want another opinion, you can always talk to Richie. Sometimes people do talk to their friends about things like adopting three kids.”

Well. Shit. 

“Richie is doing better, I think, but I don’t want to put too much on his plate at this point. Plus, I almost don’t want to make it maybe real by actually talking about it. And hopefully my brother will actually start to show up for his kids and it won’t even be an issue,” Syd says with a sigh, hiding her face in her hands. 

Well. Even bigger shit. 

“Hey, hey, babe, look at me,” Sam says.

Syd tilts her head so she can see the screen. 

“I love you, Syd-tastic,” Sam says.

Syd groans and smiles at her. “I hate it when you call me that. Thank you for listening- I know it’s bedtime back home.”

“Eh, I never sleep well when you’re gone. Bed is too big and cold,” Sam says.

“Tell me about it,” Syd grumbles. “The beds on tour don’t even smell like you. Sucks ass.”

Sam’s laughter comes through the speakers, loud and clear. “What kind of shitty hotels are you staying at, Syds?”

They both banter a riff on that for a bit until Syd yawns and stretches out.

“Let’s get some sleep, okay?” Syd says.

“Well, I’ll try,” Sam says.

Syd turns all the lights off in the room and practically runs back to the bed. 

“I love you,” Syd says, buried under all the covers this time. She’s still facing towards the end of the bed, feet kicking the headboard in a way that doesn’t seem like it can be comfortable. “Goodnight, Sam.”

“Night, Syd. Love you, too. Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Sam says.

Syd presses few buttons on the computer and suddenly Eddie hears the sound of another woman breathing through the speakers as the backlight dims. She pushes the laptop to the side a bit, laying all the way down and turning to face the laptop. 

Eddie realizes that he way crossed over the line of invading Syd’s privacy about five minutes back and that watching her fall asleep with her wife on Skype is crossing a whole other line, but he can’t help but linger here.

While he’s been curious about talking to someone other than Richie, he’s not going to try it because she would be probably be (understandably) concerned with a strange man in her hotel room. But he just can’t help but stay because he can just feel the pure, happy love radiating off of Syd and even through the screen. He’s never really seen that before, and he can’t quite bring himself to look away.

Eddie watches Syd relax, bit by bit. Like all of the tension goes out of her just by hearing her wife breathe slow beside her.

He had thought that what he had for Myra was Real Love. Sure, it was nothing like a fairytale, but of course it wasn’t. Fairytale love is for fairytales, and he’s part of the real world, so he did his duty to his wife, no matter what, and if he didn’t really feel anything while he did it, well, then, it’s a good thing Myra was always so good at telling him what she wanted from him. He fulfilled his duties… dutifully.

But maybe sometimes love should involve these little sorts of things. Maybe sometimes love is a woman falling asleep listening to her wife fall asleep 2,400 miles away over Skype. Maybe sometimes it’s reaching out your hand to your oldest friend over dinner after forgetting each other for 27 years and as soon as he touches you, your heart beats harder in your chest and you never want to let go. Real fairytale shit.

It does kind dawn on Eddie that it is getting just a tad creepier than he’s comfortable with as Syd and her wife both drift off to sleep. Richie has to be done by now- he can’t have  _ that _ much stamina- so Eddie drifts back into the bathroom. 

Richie is in the shower when Eddie appears back in the bathroom. He’s humming to himself, an upbeat tune that Eddie can’t identify. 

“Bastard, getting off when I don’t even have a body to do the same,” Eddie grumbles as he floats over to the door. “I’m not going to forget this!”

“Hello?” Richie says, peeking out from behind the curtain and squinting. “Is someone there?” 

“Yes! Yes! Richie, can you hear me?” Eddie says, embarrassment about Richie’s nudity temporarily forgotten. “Richie!”

Richie squints some more, getting out of the shower and stumbling to the sink. He wipes the steam off of his glasses and looks around.

“Is there someone there?” Richie repeats as his glasses start to fog up again. 

“Rich!” Eddie yells again. “Please!”

They’re close enough that Eddie could stand on his tiptoes and kiss him, if he had a body. As it is, Eddie reaches forward just a bit to touch his bare shoulder, hoping to make some sort of contact. His hand passes right through Richie, and he yells in wordless frustration.

Richie pokes his head out into the main room, looking around for a minute before shrugging. 

“Guess I was done anyway,” Richie says, rubbing his temple. “God, it’s been a day.”

Eddie experiences a whole new level of frustration as he realizes that he’s in here with a naked, dripping wet Richie. He really doesn’t want to look, but the proximity has short circuited his brain and he can’t remember that he can go through walls and Richie is between him and the door. 

Richie shakes his head again and crosses over to the vanity. Eddie would still need to pass uncomfortably-comfortably close to him to get to the door in the narrow room, so he presses himself back further into the room as Richie- still naked- starts brushing his teeth.

“You don’t brush your teeth nearly enough, you know,” Eddie says, just to say something and not concentrate on the fact that Richie is still wet and very close to him. He looks up and away very pointedly. “Twice a day is really what you should be going for, not once a day unless you forget.”

Richie doesn’t reply, but spitting and swishing noises come from the sink. 

Eddie chances a glance just a little downwards as Richie towels off and heads into the next room. He sighs in relief that Richie is gone with his privacy relatively intact. 

“Oh fuck, I gotta stop forgetting I can go through walls,” Eddie says, slapping his forehead. 

_ Yeah, it’s pretty embarrassing _ .

“Hey! You could at least remind me!” Eddie points out. 

_ It’s funnier this way. _

“Dick.”

_ Kind of, yeah. But you still have access to yours! So don’t say I never did anything for you. _

“Are you saying ghosts can’t do anything other than jack off?” Eddie asks. “The fuck?”

_ Well, you are the only thing you’re really able to touch. It won’t be quite the same, but no messy clean up, either!  _

“It’s really weird to jack off when you know god is watching,” Eddie points out.

_ I’m polite. I don’t like to watch. Also! Still not god.  _

“Good to know,” Eddie murmurs to himself. Death is weird.

Figuring that he’s given Richie enough time to reclothe himself, Eddie heads out to the main part of the room. Richie has moved to the other bed, and Eddie groans at the sight of the crumpled sheets and drying wet spots on the first bed. 

Richie looks relaxed, sprawled across the bed. It’s really not fair how good he looks in a ratty old shirt and pair of boxers. Eddie hates him just a little bit for it.

There’s a heat in Eddie’s belly as he looks at Richie, and all Eddie wants to do is close the space between them, but he knows that that won’t actually do any good.

“Fine. Fine!” Eddie yells, turning back towards the bathroom. 

It’s been awhile since he’s done this, previously too numb and repressed to be that into masturbation. He’s back to perching on the bathroom sink, but this time, he’s pushed his pants and underwear down to his ankles. 

He tries not thinking of Richie at first, but that’s a losing battle that he gives up on real quick. Eddie lets himself think of all of the things that he definitely wasn't thinking about earlier- things he didn't let himself think about for decades. 

Honestly, as soon as he lets himself think of Richie touching him, kissing him, moaning because of  _ him _ , Eddie is gone. The warmth floods through his form, and while there's no actual ejaculation, his back arches and his toes curl as he yells Richie's name. Everything feels white-hot and delicious for a long, glorious moment. 

He feels, he feels, he feels so much in a bright burst of a moment.

“Oh  _ fuck _ ,” Eddie says. 

Even without a heart to beat, he feels worn out in a delightful way and he slumps over on the sink. Eddie really hasn’t orgasmed that often, overall, and when he did, he mostly felt sick afterwards like there was something bad in him. 

In this moment, though, he just feels deliriously happy. It can just be good! He’s allowed to just feel good. 

Eddie has a new hobby after that night. The empty expanse of his nights are replaced with Eddie figuring out what turns him on and enjoying it. He has a few favorite fantasies, it turns out.

There are romantic love-making fantasies, where Eddie gets to say all the cheesy romantic shit he’s never actually felt before and Richie touches him slowly as he goes wild. There are the fantasies where Richie gets a little rougher with him, putting Eddie just where he wants him, or the ones where he pushes Richie back onto the bed of whatever hotel they’re staying in that night and gets exactly what he wants. There are even little domestic fantasies- watching a movie turning into making out on the couch turning to quick handjobs, or interrupting making dinner for a quick fuck on the counter.

That nobody can hear him means that he can whine and moan and groan as much as he wants as he pushes into his hand. There’s also not much of a refractory period as a ghost  _ and _ no chafing, so he’s really got time to explore himself. He’s even enjoying himself too much to be upset about the fact that he had to die to have the best orgasms of his life (so far).

Richie seems to be doing better overall, too, which is great to watch. He seems weirdly agitated in the mornings sometimes, but he's not drinking as often as he was and not crying as much, either. 

* * *

Richie has a big problem. Well, he has a lot of problems, but as he lays in bed one morning with another goddamn boner from another sex dream, there's one problem that looms large in his mind. 

Sex dreams are fine. Wonderful, even, because it means he's not dreaming about Pennywise or Stan dying or Eddie dying or everyone dying except him, and instead, he’s dreaming about sex, which he certainly misses having- he realized junior year of college that if he was going to stay closeted in the limelight, having gay sex wasn’t really an option.

But these sex dreams aren't about him getting hot and heavy with some random celebrity dude. They're about Eddie.

They're all about Eddie.

Every single goddamn night for the past two weeks, he’s had sex dreams about his goddamn dead straight best friend. And like, Richie likes sex dreams! He likes masturbating and he likes sex fantasies, but boy, does it seem screwed up to be having constant sex dreams about your dead best friend who was heterosexually married to a woman. Like there’s no part of that that’s great. 

And he’s never had such vivid sex dreams before- it’s like he can hear Eddie going at it. Christ, he’s now dreamed about having Eddie in just about every position he can think of, which is way more sex dreams than he’s ever needed to have about his  _ dead straight best friend that he’s been in love with forever _ .

Richie shifts around, trying to find a way to get comfortable so he can fall asleep again. It doesn’t feel right to jack off when he wakes up like this; he tries to wait until he at least makes it to the shower. It’s like being a fucking teenager again.

This is the weirdest part of the grieving process so far. 

And it’s not like he can go to Syd and talk to her about his little problem. Even he realizes that going up to your agent/friend and talking about your literal grief boner is a big no-no. 

“Oh, fucking fine!” Richie says as he can’t find a position that doesn’t make it all worse. “Fine!” 

It doesn’t take long to jerk himself off thinking of the dream he just had. As soon as he’s done, he regrets it as he always does when he jerks himself off thinking of Eddie. It still feels so weird.

“Sorry?” Richie says with a sigh. He doesn’t actually think Eddie or anyone can hear him, but he still feels like he needs to apologize. “I’m just… so sorry, Eddie.”

Richie wipes his hand on the bed and flips over onto his other side. It’s another hour until his alarm goes off, and dammit, he is going to get some more sleep. 

“It’s fine, Rich,” Eddie’s voice filters in as he falls asleep. “I mean, it’s hard to not get an eyeful when you just start jacking off, but I try to give you privacy as best I can.”

There’s a lot he wants to say, whenever he has these dreams about Eddie. He rarely says any of it, though, just because it’s hard to put all his thoughts together like this, so all manages to say is, “you can watch if you want.”

Eddie laughs from where he’s sitting on the bed next to him. “Don’t tempt me. You’re super hot, and, fuck, it’d be great to watch you get yourself off instead of just fantasizing all night.”

God, these dreams are ridiculous. 

“Go for it,” Richie says. “You’re a ghost.”

“Well, who am I to argue?” Eddie says. 

Richie laughs into his pillow. “You always argue.”

“Do not!”

This time, Richie laughs so hard that he wakes himself up and he basks in the warmth of it. He loves it when he has these softer dreams, where it feels like Eddie is still with him. They used to only upset him, but now there’s a warm undercurrent to his sadness. 

That’s at least more recognizable as progress to him. 

With a half content, half sad sigh, Richie sits up to face the light filtering in through the window. He’s not usually much of a morning person, but he feels good today. He feels normal today, in a way he never felt normal, even before the killer clown. 

“If you’re really here, Eds, you’re welcome to watch me masturbate or in the shower or whatever. Enjoy the show,” Richie says, still smiling and warm. 

It’s the kind of joke that he would make if Eddie were really still around, and he can hear Eddie protesting that ew, he’d never want to see him like that and hey, he hates being called Eds! 

When he has days like this, there’s still a part in the back of his head that makes him feel like he’s guilty. Like he shouldn’t be allowed to be happy when Eddie is still dead, but he tries hard to remember what Syd said when he came out to her- Eddie wouldn’t want him to be miserable for the rest of his life. 

Richie gets started on his day and does manage to carry that good energy with him, even all the way through the show. It goes good, but it could definitely go better.

“Hey Syd, I want to talk to talk to you about something,” Richie says after. 

They’re walking back to the hotel, as they usually do. The nights are chilly these days, and Syd is bundled up tight. Richie is fine in a light jacket, though.

“Shoot,” Syd says.

“I know this tour is almost done, but I was wondering if I could start writing some of my own shit,” Richie says. “Maybe even perform it, at some point.”

Syd turns to look at him, and even though her face is partially hidden by a scarf, he can tell that she’s beaming at him. 

“I dunno, are you funny at all?” Syd asks lightly. “I mean, I’ve known you since you came out here, and I don’t think you’ve ever said anything funny.”

Richie laughs at her. “I’ve made a person or two laugh in my day. I’ll do my best.”

“Then I know your next tour is going to be even better than this one,” Syd says. 

“I still don’t want to talk about… any of that,” Richie says. “In any public way.” 

“I’m not going to make you do anything you’re not comfortable with,” Syd says. “I do think you should consider it- not all of it, but the less tragic bits- because you’ve seemed to be getting better recently. I know what kind of relief that can be. But I’m not going to make you do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Richie shakes his head a bit. The thought of everyone looking at him, at knowing, is too much to contemplate. It makes his stomach twist uncomfortably, like he’s about to vomit.

“I can’t imagine everyone looking at me and knowing. Seeing blog headlines and all those online comments? No thanks,” Richie says with a shiver. “I honestly could only tell you because of the alcohol I had at dinner.”

“Okay,” Syd says with a nod. “I get it. It’s not always easy. People say shit. Whatever makes you most comfortable is what we’ll go with.”

“Thanks, Syd,” Richie says. 

Syd gives him a little nod and they continue the rest of the walk to the hotel in friendly silence.

* * *

Eddie stops for a moment when Richie’s conversation with Syd is over. He hasn’t really thought about the future too much because it almost doesn’t feel real. It’s been months of death and only being able to talk to Richie while he’s not fully aware of what’s going on, and Eddie knows that if he makes plans, it’ll drive him up the wall. 

But he did have a vague idea of a future, just enough to know that he saw himself with Richie. The particulars of it never quite formed outside of his sex fantasies and stray thoughts here and there, but he imagined walking down the street holding Richie’s hand. Going on dates and going out together as a couple and telling their friends.

Listening to Richie, though, it sounds like he’s not going to want that. That he wants to stay deep in the closet. And that’s his right, of course, but it’s not quite what Eddie intended.

The thing that’s kept Eddie going is the thought that at the end of this, he’d get his second chance- and he’d get to do his second chance with Richie.

What’s he going to do if Richie doesn’t actually want him? What’s he going to do if Richie only wants him as a dirty little secret?

Oh. Fuck. 

Eddie stops in thought long enough that the invisible tether keeping him attached to Richie pulls him forward. 

Maybe this is one thing that’s okay to pack away for now. It’s something that he would have to talk to Richie about, and not one that he can totally work out on his own. 

But the thought that he might have to forge his new life without Richie settles heavily in the back of his mind. At least, no matter what, he’ll have Richie’s friendship. That’s good, but it also might be excruciating. 

“Shit! Fuck!” Eddie yells.

He continues to scream profanity as the link between him and Richie keeps pulling him forward. In that moment it hits him- he has no control over anything. Over  _ anything _ . He can’t go anywhere unless Richie does, can’t tell Richie where he wants them to go, can’t open a door, can’t do anything at all. 

His stream of profanity turns into a wordless scream as he tries to fight against the endless pull forward. It would probably look funny, if anyone could see him- just a full grown man screaming and clawing like mad while being pulled along by an invisible rope. 

But there’s no relief in it for Eddie: there’s no stinging soreness in his throat; he has no muscles to tense to the point of pain; there is nothing that he can hit or actually fight against; even his screams don’t echo back at him.

He might as well not exist.

He basically doesn’t exist.

_ You can go back to the clubhouse. You don’t have to endure this. _

The turtle, cute little thing that he is, appears before him. 

Eddie keeps up the scream for a moment but lets it all drop. 

“Do you know how much longer it’ll take?” Eddie asks, voice small. 

_ You are close. _

“That’s not much of an answer,” Eddie points out.

_ I am sorry, Eddie. That is all I have. _

Eddie screams. Just a bit. Then he stalks after Richie. 

“I’m not leaving him,” Eddie says. He remembers the minutes after his death. He remembers how Richie had to be ripped from his body, even as the house came down around him. The way that Richie kept fighting, even when there was really nothing left to fight for, as far as he knew. “I can’t just abandon him.”

_ I understand. _

Eddie has made it back to the hotel by now. He thinks about floating up through the floor, since that’s at least sort of cool, but he still feels kind of empty. 

“Hello, Richie,” Eddie says with a soft sigh when he drifts into the room. “God, I hope this doesn’t all blow up.”

Richie, of course, doesn’t reply. He’s stretched out on the bed. The television is playing a show that Eddie doesn’t recognize, but Richie is smiling at it, so it must be some sort of comedy. 

Feeling small, feeling uncertain, Eddie crawls into the bed, pretending that he can feel Richie against him as he rests his head on Richie’s shoulder. He takes a minute to examine the planes of Richie’s face from this angle. His hairline has already started to recede and there are wrinkles around his eyes even when he’s not smiling. 

Eddie thinks back through his memories. They’re no longer totally absent, but there are still plenty of thick cobwebs. 

The last time he saw Richie, before they left Derry, they had gone up to the quarry one last time. At first, the whole loser’s club was there, but one by one they all went home until it was just the two of them under the bright full moon. 

They had climbed back up to the top of the quarry, sitting on the ledge and kicking their legs. Just a little too close together. They were always just a little too close together when they were alone. 

Eddie wishes that he could remember exactly what they said, but looking back at the memory through adult eyes, all he can remember is how young Richie looked. Boy of eighteen, with the same mop of hair. Both of them sure that the worst days of their lives were behind them, unaware of the horrors to come.

God, the both lost out on so much time together. Yeah, he’s not willing to miss out on any more time. Not if he has a choice.

In his cobweb memory, he remembers that Richie said something, made some dumb joke that made Eddie panic. Some joke about practicing kissing, or him being cute, or something else that, Eddie realizes, probably scared the shit out of Richie too. 

Eddie had gotten up, jumped on off the quarry. The fall and the impact always cleared his head.

He had looked up at Richie, unable to read his expression, but able to tell that he was watching. 

Mom had come then, dragged him back home, and the last thing he saw was Richie still peeking at him from the top of the quarry as his mom drove away. Not even a proper goodbye. 

Eddie realizes that he’s crying, which doesn’t seem quite right, and Richie’s shirt is wet underneath him, which also doesn’t seem quite right. 

“What the fuck?” Richie mutters, looking down at the wet spot and up at the ceiling. 

“Richie,” Eddie’s voice gets caught in his throat. 

_ Close, but not quite yet. _

Eddie leans his head back on Richie’s shoulder.

Close, but not quite yet.

* * *

The tour ends, and Richie is ready to be back home. Traveling a lot gets old, eventually, and it might be nice to stay put for a while. 

Until he walks through the door to his actual house. There are dishes in the sink, dishes on the floor, stains all over, and just garbage everywhere. He had somehow conveniently forgotten how he left the place. 

“Fuck me,” he mutters as he takes it in.

The other rooms aren’t much better- mold in the toilet, stinky sheets and unwashed clothes all over. Richie knows himself well enough to know that he’s never going to be a  _ neat _ person by anyone’s standards, but this is a bit much, even for him. 

Richie spends a week cleaning. Okay, so he doesn’t work diligently through the whole week because he does start writing down some bits for his act, and there are a lot of extra trips down to the store for cleaning supplies (who knew that there were so many different things you could use to clean? Probably people who actually clean), but by the time he’s done his house is in a state where he could, hypothetically, have company over. 

There is one part of his house that he hasn’t touched, and that’s his hall closet. Not for any weird, repressed gay reasons, but because it’s where he put Eddie’s bags. Taking them had felt weird, but leaving them behind had felt weirder. He had put them (carefully) in the hall closet as soon as he had gotten home, dumping several jackets on the floor to make room, but hadn’t opened the closet door since then. 

Okay, so, maybe he’s been avoiding that particular closet for a slightly repressed gay reason. So sue him.

Richie stands outside the closet for a whole ass ten minutes before pulling it open. The bags are still sitting there, looking innocent. 

“Well, it’s been awhile since I’ve sobbed hysterically,” Richie mutters to himself as he takes them into his living room. 

He stares at them sitting on his coffee table; they’re nice leather bags. In a better world, it’s a common sight; Eddie would be welcome anytime, and of  _ course _ would take him up on the offer all the time. He’d come up to visit and they’d talk and laugh and it’d be like being fifteen again, always sitting just far enough apart to keep from being suspicious.

Or even… and he knows he’s being indulgent in ways he really shouldn’t be, but he imagines that it’s a common sight because it’s where Eddie puts them when he gets home from travelling when he’s tired. Then Richie could put them away for him, and they could settle together on the couch and catch up. 

Richie wipes his eyes, realizing that there’s dampness. Mmm, fuck.

He unzips the first bag. There’s one of those weekly pillbox things, most days still full, and Richie shakes his head. Fuckin’ Mrs. Kaspbrak. Looking back, that was all real fucked up, even if he adored Eddie’s little fanny pack. 

“God, you deserved so much better. I really hope you found it,” Richie says, setting the pillbox aside. 

He takes one look at Eddie’s sweatshirt, and rubs his hand over his face as his heart gives a heavy thud. 

He’s not even sure what he’s doing. Does he really need to go through Eddie’s things? It’s not like he’s going to get rid of them or mix them into his own things. 

But he knows that he does. Richie can’t keep Eddie as a ghost in his closet. He just can’t. 

He takes the sweatshirt out of the bag and pats it for a minutes before setting it aside. Richie hesitates but then picks it back up. He presses his face into the fabric, and he inhales deeply.

It smells like whatever too expensive cologne Eddie wears- citrus, maybe? some sort of wood-ish thing is involved?- which makes Richie’s heart pang. He remembers the scent of it when he got close to Eddie at the big reunion dinner. 

Everything had come rushing back to him in one sudden moment. The whole plane ride out to Derry, Richie had tried to put together the scattered pieces of his memory together, and it came back in fits and starts as he drove closer and closer. But as soon as he got close to Eddie, the final pieces fell back into place. The best pieces of it fell back into place.

Richie inhales deep again, closing his eyes. Underneath the cologne is Eddie’s familiar scent. He can’t quite put his finger on what makes it different, but he feels like he could pick it out anywhere. It reminds him of being kids together.

Maybe just getting this far is enough for now. It’s better than nothing.

* * *

Eddie watches as Richie pulls the pillbox out of his bag, cringing at how the pills rattle around. Myra always laid out all of his pills for him; she had packed this right up for him and sent him on his way. Just like his mother would’ve.

“God, you deserved so much better. I really hope you found it,” Richie says as he sets it down. 

“I think I have now,” Eddie says. He sits down beside Richie on the couch and puts his hand on Richie’s back, even though there’s no point. “I really hope I have now.”

Richie pulls out his sweatshirt next. It’s kind of ratty- he’s had it forever- and a bit too big, so he usually wears it to bed when it gets chilly. 

He pats it gently, sets it aside, then picks it back up to bury his face in it. Richie inhales a few times, shaky. 

“It’s okay,” Eddie says.

There are tears welling up in Richie’s eyes, and he sets the sweatshirt carefully back in the bag before he stretches out on the couch. He seems suddenly exhausted, and Eddie can’t blame him. The way that he’s worked through cleaning the apartment has been truly impressive.

Eddie kneels on the floor in front of Richie and rests his hand on Richie’s cheek. God, he can’t wait to do this for real.

There’s an almost-light in Richie’s drooping eyes as he exhales with a sigh. The air brushes over Eddie’s cheeks and he realizes that he can feel Richie’s stubble under his fingers. His heart -  _ his heart! _ \- beats in his chest, a heavy thud, and Richie’s floor is making his knees hurt.

_ This is just a test. _ The turtle’s voice comes soft against his skull.

Eddie nods a little and just concentrates on absorbing the feeling. His traces Richie’s jawline with feather-light touches to avoid disturbing him, but he revels in how the stubble feels against his fingertips. When Richie breathes out his breath is warm -  _ warmth! warmth at long last!  _ \- against Eddie’s face; his breath smells like a week’s worth of morning breath, but Eddie doesn’t move to avoid it because it’s something that he can feel.

“Eds?” Richie’s voice is barely comprehensible, stuck in sleep.

Eddie is certain that if Richie wakes up all the way, he’ll go back to unfeeling undeath, so he doesn’t say anything to wake him up. Maybe it’s selfish, but Eddie just wants to enjoy feeling something, anything again, and it feels so precious to have this moment with Richie, even if Richie isn’t fully awake.

It certainly isn’t heaven, but Eddie cherishes this moment regardless, even with Richie nearly asleep. His fingers trail down Richie’s neck to the soft fabric of his shirt, and he can still feel the warmth of Richie’s body. That maybe is a little bit like heaven.

Everything in him wants to crawl up onto the couch with Richie to curl up with him, pressed body to body, but he knows he can’t.

Eddie’s fingers just barely skirt along the Richie’s wrist before Eddie gently brushes some hair out of the other man’s face. He rests his hand back on Richie’s cheek.

“Everything’s going to be okay, Rich,” Eddie says softly.

Richie inhales sharply a moment later, pressing against Eddie’s hand. His eyes flash open a minute later.

“Eddie!” 

* * *

Richie is having the sweetest dream of his life. It's simple- Eddie is there, touching him tenderly and with such care. 

There's a place inside of him that he keeps closed off, buried under a layer of deflecting jokes that bury a layer of shame that feels like the core of him. But he feels Eddie touching him, and it's like he's reached into Richie's chest to find the real core of him, pulled it out, and deemed it beautiful.

"Eds?" Richie manages to say. 

Eddie doesn't say anything, but that's fine. Richie is content to let him trace over him, staring blearily up into his face. He's now in the part of that sleep-wake continuum where he feels like he's awake, so the devotion and rapt love Richie sees on Eddie's face feels so real to him, but sleep has blissfully quieted the cruel part of him that would list off why this can't be real. 

Richie is grateful for how the seconds stretch on like days as he lays on the couch, Eddie's hand stroking lovingly down his neck. He whines just a little as Eddie hits fabric- he wants that skin to skin contact- but it softens something in Eddie’s expression, so Richie can be content, for him. 

There’s a haziness to Eddie’s whole being, which Richie can’t really process right now, but it makes him look almost unreal. But it’s undeniably him, undeniably him touching his shoulder, then brushing his fingers over his wrist. 

The moment it must take for Eddie’s hand to move from Richie’s wrist to his cheek stretches for far too long, and Richie’s eyes flutter closed as Eddie’s palm comes to rest against him. He leans into the touch, desperate for more.

“Everything’s going to be okay, Rich,” Eddie says softly. 

The taut wire holding everything in place snaps, and Richie realizes that he can  _ hear _ Eddie.  _ Feel _ him touching him. And it crashes in on him that he’s having the most vivid dream of his life. 

His eyes fly open, and the ghostly image of Eddie solidifies for a moment before the dream is gone.

“Eddie!” Richie says, sitting up and looking around.

For some reason, he expects to see Eddie somewhere in the living room, but of course, he’s alone. 

Eddie is dead! If Eddie wasn’t dead, he wouldn’t be here when he has a wife in New York! If Eddie was here, instead of with his wife in New York, he certainly wouldn’t be touching him like this. 

What kind of sick individual fantasizes about his dead straight friend touching him? God, how disrespectful to Eddie, somebody he supposedly cares about? 

“I’m so sorry, Eddie,” Richie says, rubbing his temples. “You deserve so much better than this.”

He just wants to go down to the liquor store to grab an entire bottle of whiskey or vodka or whatever is cheapest, but knows that that’s not a good way to deal with everything. Shit. Shit shit shit. 

Richie inhales a shaky sob, trying to shove down the rising bile of self hatred. He presses the palms of his hands into his eyes and grabs for his phone and dials.

“Richie?”

"Syd. I, uh, well," Richie says, trying to make his voice sound even. 

"Is everything okay?" Syd asks.

"Not really," Richie says. "Can you, ah, come over? If you're not busy? Sorry."

"I'll be right there," Syd says. There's some muttering that Richie can’t quite make out as she talks to someone else for a minute. “Are you like, in imminent danger of hurting yourself?”

“No, I promise,” Richie says. 

“Okay, good. Just sit tight, okay?” Syd says. 

Richie nods, realizes she can’t see him over the phone, and says, “yes.”

“See you soon, Rich. Bye,” Syd says, hanging up. 

He instantly feels stupid for bothering Syd on a well-deserved night off. She probably wants to spend time with her wife, not his sorry ass. She’s seen him more than enough while on tour. 

If he thought she would listen, he’d call her back to tell her it was all a joke, but he knows she would still insist on coming over. 

Richie sighs and leans back on the couch. He knows that he should get up and do something. Put on clean clothes or put the bags away or put a pot of coffee on or something. 

But he just sits there, looking at the bags on the table, unable to move. 

* * *

Eddie watches Richie just sit there. His breathing is ragged, and Eddie wants to reach out to comfort him. 

“Am I hurting him more by being here?” Eddie asks. “Whenever we make contact, it makes him more upset.”

_ Not always, but there is no way for this to be easy for him. He would always miss you like this.  _

“You can’t just make him happy?” Eddie asks.

_ I’m working on it. But grief takes time to heal from, and it’s not always a straightforward process.  _

“I just want him to be happy. To be okay,” Eddie says.

_ Patience. _

But it’s hard to be patient when someone you love is in pain.

There’s a knock on the door, and Richie barely moves as he says, “it’s open.”

The doorknob jiggles for a minute.

“It’s not, but I still have the key,” Syd says. 

There's a fumbling for a minute before Syd opens the door and walks in. She's dressed casually and has what looks like pizza and assorted foodstuffs in hand. 

"Aw, shit, Syd, did I interrupt dinner?" Richie asks. 

"Nah, I was just picking up some food for movie night. You're saving me from having to watch whatever new Christmas movie is on Netflix," Syd says as she kicks her shoes off. 

"But Sam's dinner-"

"I sent the delivery kid out with a nice tip and texted her that something came up," Syd says, voice raising as she heads into the kitchen. "Jesus, Richie, you're way more organized in here than I thought you were going to be."

A few minutes later, Syd comes out of the kitchen balancing two plates and two glasses of pop. She sets it down on the coffee table, taking care to not get anywhere near the bag. 

“Do you want to talk about why you called me? Or nah?” Syd asks. 

“I really wanted to down a whole bottle of vodka. Figured that you wouldn’t let me ruin my liver,” Richie says. 

“Because of that?” Syd asks, nodding towards the bags. 

Richie nods. 

“Do you want me to put them somewhere else?” Syd asks. 

Richie nods again. “Closet.” 

“Okay,” Syd says. “I’ll be right back.”

Syd gets up, ruffling Richie’s hair affectionately before picking up the bags. She’s careful with them, which Eddie appreciates. 

“You’ve got a good agent, Rich,” Eddie says. “Explaining everything to her is going to be a bitch and a half.” 

Richie makes half a humming noise; Eddie’s not sure if that’s a reaction, if he’s becoming more corporeal. Or, of course, Richie could just be humming to himself. 

Syd comes back a minute later and joins Richie on the couch. 

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Syd asks. 

Richie nods. 

“Something gay and sad so you can cry about something other than Eddie or something gay and heartwarming because from what I’ve seen, most of your gay experience has been being very sad, which is unfortunate because it doesn’t have to be,” Syd says.

“I mean, there was a time in college when I was- well, not  _ out _ , but enjoying myself enough. But it hasn’t all been crying on the couch. So,” Richie says with a shrug. 

“Really?” Eddie says just as Syd says, “good for you!” 

“But still. Maybe something happy would be good,” Richie says. 

“Good, good, that’s what I was in the mood for, too,” Syd says. 

Syd flips on a movie that Eddie doesn’t recognize, but he settles in anyway. Eddie pays half attention to the movie, half attention to Richie. 

The movie seems sweet enough. The man goes back to his little small town and meets back up with his old high school crush. Everyone in the small town wants to help the shopkeep win the man’s affection. It’s a mythical, magical land where nobody cares that this love triangle is playing out between three men.

Richie watches with wide eyes, leaning forward and nearly hugging himself. As the story plays out, Eddie finds himself paying less and less attention the movie and more to Richie. It’s been awhile since he’s seen anyone quite so into a movie.

“Why can’t you see how much love there is that people want to pour on top of you? I can’t help but thinking your grandma and I didn’t do right by you somehow. Well, I feel maybe we taught you something wrong, because you won’t tell me who you are. Did we teach you shame? Because it would break my heart if we had. Can’t you see what a good job God did here? Can’t you see how beautiful he made you?” the old man on screen says.

Richie buries his face in his hands, shaking. Eddie can’t actually see his face, but he can tell that Richie is crying hard. All he wants to do is reach out to be able to hold him, to comfort him, but when he tries, his goddamn hand just passes through his shoulderblades. 

How unfair it is, to not be able to wipe away these tears in particular, because all Eddie wants Richie to know in this moment is how loved he is, and how lovely.

“Hey!” Eddie yells when he realizes that Syd is watching the movie and not Richie (which, fair, but also, unfair) (this is the second-best thing he can think of) “Hey, Syd!” 

Syd frowns, shakes her head, but then catches sight of Richie. 

Wait, did she hear him? Can someone hear him other than Richie? Is this a sign that he’s almost out of this prison?

In this moment, it doesn’t really matter, he supposes.

* * *

All those years ago, when Richie was in college and watching those movies with the boy he liked, but never did anything about that fact because he really,  _ really  _ liked him, he never managed to watch one all the way through. The plots were boring and the happy endings that his heart knew he’d never deserve made him sad, which didn’t seem to be the point of watching a cheesy romantic comedy.

But Richie finds himself engrossed in this movie from the start. The small town, the long standing crush on someone who won’t- or can’t- want you back… It would hit too close to home except for the softness of the movie. Nobody tries to kill him. There are cute misunderstandings.

Richie waits for the other shoe to drop, for the tragedy to begin. Objectively, he knows that Syd wouldn’t have put on a movie like that and said it was happy, but he still can’t help but expect that this is all going to end in tragedy. 

But then the man is being held by his grandpa, told that he doesn’t need to be ashamed anymore, that if he’s ashamed, it’s not his fault. He never should’ve been taught to feel that way. 

And Richie can feel the tears coming and he doesn't want to disturb Syd watching the movie and he doesn't want anyone to see him like this but he can't feel his legs so he presses his face into his hands and tries control himself but can't. Can't can't can't.

"Hey, hey," Syd's voice is soft as she puts her arms around him. "It's okay."

Richie shakes his head because it's not and it feels like it's never going to be and how does she just not care what people say or write or think about her and how can he exist for another forty years in a world without Eddie in it and how can he exist in the closet for that long when he already feels like he can’t breathe?

Her hand rubs his back in soothing circles and he decides that she's not going to judge him, and in that moment that's enough for him to let go. He lets himself cry and hugs her back and really lets himself feel the avalanche of emotion rushing through him. He's crying for Eddie, and for Stan, but for himself and the other Losers too. They all lost so many years and so much of themselves and it's fucking unfair. 

Syd is murmuring words that Richie can't work out and the television is still going and it feels like Richie's heart has exploded across his ribcage, but when he pulls away, no longer sobbing quite so hard, there's no gore and spatter that he's grown used to. Just snot and tears and probably a little drool. Not horror, just banality. 

That’s horror too.

"Shit, Syd, sorry," Richie says, all the words really slurring together as one big s.

He half flutters his hands, as he wants to get something to help her clean up but can't quite feel his whole body enough to manage it. His half motion is stalled by Syd's hands grabbing his and pulling him lightly, just enough to get him to look at her. 

"Hey, it's okay," Syd's voice is gummed up in her throat and Richie realizes that her eyes are rimmed with red. "I've been covered in worse than a little snot."

"It's kind of a lot of it," Richie says sheepishly.

"You threw up on me before the first set you ever did, remember?” Syd says, not unkindly. “And several sets after that, too.”

Richie laughs, unsteady like he’s not used to it. “Yeah. God, I don’t pay you enough.”

“Just wait until my contract is up again,” Syd jokes with an easy smile. “I’m getting bodily fluid hazard pay.”

“I’d sign that,” Richie says.

He realizes he’s clutching her hands and loosens his grip just a bit. 

“I’m sorry for… I’m just sorry, I guess,” Richie says.

“You don’t always have to be sorry. We’re friends, yeah?” Syd doesn’t go on until Richie gives a little nod. “Sometimes things like this happen between friends. And I always cry at that part, too.”

“You?” Richie asks.

“I mean… yeah!” Syd says brightly. “Nobody ever said anything like that to me, for a very long time at least, so… it still hits close to home. It’s still soothing to hear.”

“I can understand that,” Richie says. 

Syd smiles softly at him, squeezing his hand. 

“Hey Richie, the way you are is wonderful. Who you are is wonderful. If I’m the only one that you’re going to let see all the wonderful parts of you, then I want to make sure that I tell you that,” Syd says. 

Richie can feel tears welling up again and he wipes at his eyes with a shaky laugh. 

“Well, fuck, Syd, if you’re going to be like  _ that _ ,” Richie says. “Imagine what you’d say if I had never thrown up on you.”

“Then I’d say that I wish that everyone could know you like I do, but man, I figure most of them wouldn’t be able to see past the vomit,” Syd says.

Richie laughs steadier this time and nods. “Probably for the best I don’t vomit on anyone else. Or you again.”

“That’d be nice,” Syd says. “But I’m not holding my breath. Except, you know, when you’re actually vomiting on me.” 

They settle back into watching the end of the movie, comfortable together. If they’re both sniffing a bit, it doesn’t really matter at this point.

The happy ending makes him warmed inside, even if he knows he won’t actually get any sort of happy ending. Maybe he can have an okay ending, at least. 

Maybe even a good ending. There’s hope enough for that.

“Do you want me to spend the night?” Syd asks for the third time as she slips her shoes on. “I can sleep on the couch. I don’t mind.”

“I’m feeling much better now, I promise,” Richie says. “Thank you for coming over.”

Syd holds him lightly by the shoulders and looks him in the eye for a long moment. He’s used to her weird long looks by now, and for once, he doesn’t have anything to hide, so he’s not surprised when she pulls him into a hug. 

“Thank you for calling me when you needed it,” Syd says. “You can always do that. Please do that.”

“I will. I promise,” Richie says.

Richie feels a wave of contentment roll over him as he shuts the door behind her. He feels much more even than he normally does. Much more stable. 

With a yawn and a stretch, Richie gets started on his nightly routine; crying his heart out is exhausting, it turns out. He needs to clean up a bit first, but it’ll be an early night.

“It’s going to be okay, Richie,” he says to himself.

And maybe, maybe, he can believe it. 

* * *

Eddie is glad that Richie has Syd. Heck, he’s glad that  _ he  _ has Syd- a few of the tears on Richie’s shirt are Eddie’s. 

_ Soon. I promise. _

“I don’t know if I can wait,” Eddie says as he watches Syd hug Richie. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

Just touching Richie’s cheek wasn’t enough. God, how can any of it be enough?

_ You can do it because you must. _

How many times has he told himself that? That he can endure because that’s what he’s supposed to do?

But as he watches Richie brush his teeth for the thousandth time, he can feel the anger welling within him. The kind of anger that he always pressed down with a pill or with alcohol or only let out in traffic. 

“No! No! You know what! Fuck this! It’s been thirty goddamn years. I’m not going to wait another few days or months or a year to be with Richie for real!” Eddie yells, feeling his heart beat hard in his chest. “I’m coming back to life  _ now _ and you’re going to figure out how to do it now! Fuck you! You piece of shit turtle! It’s been long enough!”

It’s silent for a minute except for the sound of Eddie’s ragged breathing. And then Richie drops his toothbrush on the floor.

_ Well. Good job, Eddie. _

Eddie can feel the turtle smiling approvingly at him as Richie stares at him and says, “E-eddie?” 

* * *

Richie is brushing his teeth when there’s a soft popping behind him. He freezes when he recognizes the shape in the mirror as Eddie’s.

And the voice.

“-with Richie for real! I’m coming back to life  _ now _ and you’re going to figure out how to do it now! Fuck you!  You piece of shit turtle! It’s been long enough!” Eddie is screaming in his bathroom. 

Eddie is alive and screaming in his bathroom.

Richie inhales, only barely avoiding inhaling a bit of toothpaste, and turns around. It’s Eddie. From the wild gesticulation to the curve of his brow to that hair. 

Richie sags backwards, grabbing the sink with his suddenly free hands.

“E-eddie?” Richie says softly. 

Eddie’s gaze flicks to him and his mouth hangs open for a minute, working gently as if he’s trying to figure out how to talk.

They just stare at each other for a long moment.

“Hi. I’m back. I’m alive now,” Eddie finally says. 

It sounds like him. It looks like him. But it can’t be. 

“You died. I held-” Richie winces, swallows hard. “I was there. You can’t be here.”

Eddie moves forward slowly, like he’s worried that Richie is going to bolt (which may be a good fear, the way that Richie is still gripping the sink), and touches his arm. His hand is warm and solid and Eddie gasps softly at the contact.

“I can feel you and you’re awake,” Eddie marvels.

Before Richie can process that statement, Eddie has surged forward and wrapped his arms around Richie completely. He’s shaking, and maybe crying, and if it was anyone else Richie would probably push them away, but it’s Eddie! It’s Eddie in his arms, and maybe that means Richie is going off the deep end, but if he is, fuck it, he’s going to enjoy himself.

Richie returns the hug, inhaling deeply. It’s funny that less than twelve hours ago he was breathing in Eddie’s sweatshirt and now he’s breathing in  _ him _ .

As soon as the thought comes crashing into his brain, it all comes crashing down. This is just a very realistic hallucination. The dreams he’s had of Eddie, the episode earlier in the day that led to him calling Syd… 

If he wants that okay ending, even that good ending, he can’t indulge in these fantasies.

Richie pulls away a bit- or he tries to, but not-Eddie is clinging to him. 

“Richie?” Eddie says questioningly.

“I can’t. I’ve been imagining you when you weren’t there, and now it’s just gone full blown. Shit,” Richie says, still trying to detangle himself. “You died. You can’t be here.”

Eddie looks so hurt that Richie’s chest aches, that he wants to just indulge in this again, but no. No. 

“Okay. This is going to sound insane, but there was this turtle. I remember dying and-” Eddie turns red and swallows hard, “and the house collapsing. But then this turtle took me to the clubhouse, and I decided to come back. I was, uh, tethered to you and so I’ve been following you around for months now- your writers are shit, by the way, I saw your whole tour- and now I’m back alive for real, I think.”

He looks off into the distance for a moment and then nods. 

“Yeah, turtle god says I’m back alive for real,” Eddie says and then gives the middle finger to something that Richie can’t perceive.

Well, if Richie was going to come up with a hallucination, it’d be a better hallucination explanation than that. Probably. Maybe.

“Call Syd,” Eddie says.

“What?”

“Syd, call her. I’ll talk to her. If she can talk to me, you’ll know I’m real,” Eddie says.

Richie is overwhelmed and feeling too many emotions that he’s unable to point out why that’s a bad idea, actually, and nods. He presses Syd’s contact information and stares at her face as his phone rings. Looking at Eddie is too hard.

He likes the contact picture of Syd, he decides. Five years ago at some event when her hair was a bit longer than she keeps it now. He snapped the candid just to be a dick, some long standing joke that he’s since forgotten, but it turned out nice, actually.

“Hello?” Syd’s voice is sleepy and Richie feels a pang of guilt for waking her.

“Hey, I’m okay, but I have kind of a crazy question,” Richie says.

“I’m not getting John Mulaney to open for you, no,” Syd says quietly. 

There’s shuffling in the background and words that Richie can’t make out, but then he hears a door opening and shutting on the other end of the line.

“It’s not that,” Richie says. “Uh, I have someone else with me, and he wanted to talk to you.”

“You’re going to explain this to my wife in the morning,” Syd says with a sigh, “and to me, too. Well, go ahead.”

Richie gestures to the phone, still not looking at Eddie. 

"Uh, hello Syd," Eddie says uncertainly. "It's good to finally talk to you."

"I'd say the same, but I don't know who I'm talking to," Syd says. 

"Just an old friend of Richie's. I hope we get to see more of each other," Eddie says. 

"Well, if you're a friend of Richie's, you're a friend of mine. But not at-" Syd pauses for a moment, "11:27 at night when I'm asleep."

"Sorry about that," Eddie says sheepishly. 

Richie's heart is pumping harder and harder and his knees feel shaky. If this is really Eddie, then he's alive. And that means that he's heard everything, watched everything over the last few months. 

But he's alive! Eddie is alive! And the world is suddenly a brighter place than he thought possible. 

"I know we have a lot to talk about, but can I maybe have something to eat?" Eddie says. "It's been, uh, a while since my last meal."

Richie isn't quite sure what there is to talk about- a plane ticket so Eddie can get back home? how disgusting and pathetic he thinks Richie is?- but he nods anyways. 

"Yeah, come on. Syd left pizza," Richie says. 

"That  _ did  _ look good," Eddie says. 

And Eddie leads him into his kitchen with the confidence of someone very familiar with the layout of his apartment. 

Oh fuck.

Eddie must have heard his love confession. Eddie is alive and knows that he’s been in love with him forever. 

Oh, shitfuck.

* * *

Richie looks like he's about to pass out, so Eddie seats him at the island and gives him a glass of water before grabbing the pizza out of the fridge. Eddie could sing with the euphoria of feeling everything! Richie's warmth when they were hugging, the feeling of the cabinets under his fingers as he opens and closes them, the coolness of the fridge when he opens it to find the pizza… oh, he feels like he's going to explode, but in the best way!

"This is so good," Eddie enthuses around a mouth full of pizza. "Like, I think this is the best pizza I've ever had."

Richie nods weakly, sipping at his water. "Joey's does good shit."

Eddie wants to keep shoving food into his mouth so he can avoid talking about his feelings, but his stupid forty year old stomach rumbles at him. He really doesn’t want to get explosive diarrhea right now, so he sets the pizza down. 

"Uh. So," Eddie finally says, mouth dry. He swallows hard. "Hi."

"Hi, Eds," Richie says. "It’s so good to see you. You look… great."

"Yeah?" Eddie says, twisting around to look at himself. "And don't call me Eds." 

It's actually the best thing that he's ever heard, but if he doesn't say it, he's worried Richie will start thinking he's a hallucination again.

"Yeah,” Richie says. “Look, I’m sorry. Let me just say that.”

He realizes that Richie hasn’t taken his eyes off of him since he realized that he’s real. Until now. Now, Richie is staring diligently into his glass. 

“Rich, what are you talking about? You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Eddie says.

“Yeah, I do. You were following me around all the time, right? That means you heard everything. The bridge with Syd. Right after in that goddamn piece of shit house,” Richie says. He groans and buries his face in his hands. “You were never supposed to know. I’ll give you the money to get back home, and we can just forget this all happened.” 

Eddie crosses over to him and puts his hand on his shoulder. Richie flinches away from his touch, but leans back against him. He’s so warm that Eddie just wants to bury himself in him.

“I’m doing this all wrong. I should’ve been thinking about how to do this right, but I was a goddamn idiot and didn’t,” Eddie says. “Will you look at me?”

Richie shakes his head. 

“Please look at me,” Eddie pleads.

There is a voice, quiet and menacing, at the back of Eddie’s head that says that he doesn’t have to do this. That he can be a good boy and go back to Myra and New York and his firm and they will all be happy to see him and he can pretend to be a straight man until his dying day and nobody has to know. Nobody has to know. 

Richie looks up at him, pleading. He’s gotten good enough at reading every twitch of Richie’s face the last few months to know that he’s expecting rejection, expecting Eddie to hurt him, and the quiet voice says for him to do that.

Eddie has always been brave, but it’s always been easiest to be brave for his friends. It’s always been easiest to be brave for Richie.

“I love you, too,” Eddie says. “I always did. I always loved you, too.”

“Eddie…” Richie says softly, like he can’t quite believe him.

Eddie takes his free hand and rests it on Richie’s cheek. He strokes his thumb along his cheekbone, just transfixed. It feels even better like this, really alive with Richie pressing into his touch.

Eddie closes the distance between them, pressing his lips against Richie’s finally- finally!- he’s only been thinking of this for a few months now, but it feels like the release of centuries. He knows, somewhere deep inside, he’s been thinking of this since they were kids.

Richie kisses him back, clinging to his shirt and pulling him closer. When they pull apart, he looks incredulous, like he thinks he’s still dreaming. He keeps his hands balled up in Eddie’s shirt to keep him close.

“I love you,” Eddie repeats. 

“That’s really good. I love you too,” Richie says, stilling up at him in wonder. “Shit, I love you too.”

Richie presses his ear to Eddie’s chest, wrapping his arms around Eddie tight. Eddie cards his fingers through Richie’s hair. He’s not quite sure how, but he knows that they’re going to be alright. They’re both alive and they have the chance to make their lives together, finally.

**Author's Note:**

> Thnx to everyone on the discord for your encouragement and for dragging me into this fandom kicking and screaming goddamn.
> 
> Also the movie they watched is Big Eden, which I really recommend!! I too cry at that part every time!


End file.
